To Being An Us
by PandaFire McMango
Summary: A day at the loft with all our fav bohemians...nuff said. Canon pairings, all that jazz, yaknow. yahoo! chapters probably coming, rated T fro langauge, and i will update as soon as ai can!


"Shit!" Mimi swore under her breath as she pricked herself with the needle for the umpteenth time that day. The needle in question wasn't, as most would probably expect, a syringe filled with some form of drug. It was, in fact, a regular sewing needle, thread with purple string and tarnished from extended use.

Mimi was using said needle to sew up a hole in one of her favorite skirts, a purple mini that, until recently, had withstood every possible obstacle and hazard. Now, however, a seam had split from too much stress, and Mimi had a choice; slave over the needle and thread or lose a favorite skirt.

It wasn't so bad, really. The rest of the group was hanging out at the loft that day too, and no one was doing anything more interesting than what she was. Mimi was lying on the floor, next to and parallel to the couch. The skirt was spread out in front of her, and she propped herself up on her elbows. On the couch itself sat Joanne and Maureen. Joanne sat at the end near Mimi's feet, her reading glasses on and an abundance of legal papers spread over Maureen's feet, which lay in her lap. Maureen was on her back, stretched out over the full length of the couch. Her head hung off the armrest, long brown hair dangling like a mess of brown vines. Her hands were high in the air, clicking around the pieces of a hand-held puzzle she had bought off a bum three days ago.

Sitting on the floor by Mimi and Maureen's heads was Angel. She was leaning back against the side of the couch and absently playing with Maureen's hair, braiding it or winding it around her finger. Collins lay on the floor, his head in Angel's lap, avidly reading _Animal Farm_ (a book he had read so many times, he had it mostly memorized).

Mark sat cross-legged on the table, fiddling around with his camera. Every once in a while he would snort with glee or growl in annoyance. A few yards away on the windowsill sat Roger, his head and back against the wall, eyes closed, vacantly strumming his guitar. The fluid chords floated through the room, creating a peaceful rhythm that everyone was content to listen to.

"What now, Mimi?" asked Angel, looking over at her friend. Mimi rolled her eyes and held up the skirt.

"I've stabbed myself _again_, and I'm not even sure if I've fucked up the last couple stitches."

"Want me to take a look?"

"My hero," said Mimi, happily handing the skirt to Angel. Angel took it and draped it over her lap, the split seam facing upwards. Unfortunately, since Collins's head happened to be in her lap, that meant that she had effectively thrown the skirt over his face.

"Angel, get this thing off of me," he said, the skirt moving slightly as he spoke. Angel poked his shoulder.

"Hold on just a minute, honey, I need to check this stitching out."

"You're not serious. Angel, take it off my face, I can't breathe, let alone read."

"Don't be such a baby, Collins," said Mimi as she rested her chin on her fists. Collins moaned, and the skirt shifted around as he tried to shake it off. Angel poked him again, and he sighed.

"Why me? Why?"

"Because you have no spine and you don't stand up for your right to breathe," said Mark casually, tightening a screw on his camera's casing with his thumbnail. Seconds later, he started to loosen it again.

"Screw you," growled Collins, and then, "_Thank_ you!" as Angel lifted the cloth off his face. She rolled her eyes and handed it to Mimi.

"The stitches look okay near the beginning, but you might want to start over with the last few."

"I knew it," moaned Mimi, already pulling out stitches. Above her on the couch, Maureen groaned.

"This freaking puzzle is annoying the hell out of me! It just doesn't work!" Joanne rolled her eyes and scribbling a note in the margins of a document. Maureen tried to click a piece into place, failed, and sighed exasperatedly.

"I mean, I seriously can't get it! It's impossible! It—" Angel gently tugged a strand of hair to make her shut up.

"Maureen, just keeping working with it, and I promise you can get it. You're a smart girl, honey, just a little…"

"Eccentric?" suggested Joanne.

"Different?" supplied Mimi.

"Insane?" added Collins.

"Creative," said Angel decidedly, tracing a pattern with the tip of her finger on Collins's forehead. Maureen sighed heavily and continued working on the puzzle.

"I got it!" Roger cried suddenly, sitting up and opening his eyes wide. The others turned to look curiously at him. Without anything more Roger began to play something, music issuing sweetly from his guitar. The first few chords weren't as familiar as they should have been, and everyone began to hope, pray, dream that—

And then the notes of Musetta's Waltz started up, and with a collective sigh they all relaxed back into their seats.

"Hey, why'd you guys stop listening?" asked Roger, confused. Mark rolled his eyes and said, "It happened again, Rog."

"What? What hap—no, it couldn't have. I made sure that every note was a different one than—"

"Sorry, Roger but it's there." Collins sounded matter-of-fact. Roger glared at him.

"Oh, you just tell me where you hear it!" He started to play the song he had just started. About ten seconds in, the six others began to chant along without even looking up from what they were doing.

"_Dee,_ dee dee dee dee _dee, _dee dee dee dee _dee_…" With a sigh, Roger leaned back and closed his eyes, already strumming new chords. Peace once again reigned. At least, until…

To Be Continued…


End file.
